Distance
by prodigaldaughter13
Summary: Third in the Lovestrong Series. Sherlock finally gets the chance to talk to John, and John is ready to listen.
1. Call It Anything but Love

Sherlock wasn't there. The eighth day since he'd first shown up, and he wasn't there. John hadn't realized he was expecting Sherlock to be there until he felt a small disappointment when he saw that the detective wasn't standing out of place in his flat. He tried to shake it off -this was what he'd asked for, after all, closing his door in the man's face each time he attempted to speak. But now, in the silence of his own home, he couldn't find the anger and betrayal he'd been feeling. All he could find was a sharp ache where that anger had been. That aching more than anything frustrated him. He _missed_ the stupid git. Only back a week and already John was missing him when he wasn't around.

This wasn't how it was supposed to go, he was supposed to go away and John would rejoice in the return of his life to normal. He was _not_ supposed to miss him once he'd left. Without really thinking about it, John pulled out his phone. He was halfway through writing a text to Sherlock when his pride caught up with him and made him delete it. Instead he shot one off to Greg. _Care for a pint? –JW_

The reply came a few minutes later. _Sure. Same pub as usual?_

_Yeah. Be there in ten. –JW_

He hadn't met up with Greg since the Fall, though they'd chatted briefly at John's wedding. John wasn't sure why he suddenly felt like reconnecting with Greg, well he knew if he thought about it, but he didn't want to know, so he pushed it aside and put his coat back on instead, stepping out briskly and hailing a cab. In ten minutes' time he was outside the old pub, down the street from 221B and Angelo's. He stepped gratefully into the warmth of the pub.

His eyes automatically scan the crowds, checking both for Greg and potential threats. Despite his best efforts, he still saw the battlefield. He didn't see Greg just yet, but assumed he'd be along in a bit. In the mean time, he ordered himself a beer and sat down at the bar.

A moment later a familiar figure slid into the seat next to him. John pointedly refused to look over, and kept his eyes trained on the opposite wall as Sherlock began to speak.

"I nicked Lestrade's phone," Sherlock said, without any of his customary pride over fooling the D.I. John didn't respond. "I assumed you'd text him sooner than you would text me."

"So you lied again." John couldn't resist the jab. He wanted Sherlock to feel just a fraction of what he'd felt the past three years, just enough to know why John couldn't have him in his life. Sherlock winced but continued smoothly.

"I did. I had to talk to you, and my original approach wasn't working," Sherlock said firmly. He seemed changed somehow, different from the Sherlock he'd known before the Fall. Then again, John had changed plenty himself. Sherlock leaned closer and John scooted back a bit, afraid of what the detective might deduce if he got too close.

Sherlock noticed and made a face that looked like he was barely suppressing an eye-roll, but he sat back to give John space. "If you want to leave, I won't blame you, but first let me explain." Then an expectant silence. John realized with a jolt that Sherlock was waiting for _permission_ to explain. Before he could stop himself he nodded. Sherlock exhaled in what on anyone else's face would be called relief and began to speak.

John ordered and drank two more beers in the time it took Sherlock to explain to him everything that had happened. It seemed the detective wasn't content to give a brief overview; he wanted to ensure John knew everything that had happened in the interim years. By the end of it John felt like the scum of the earth, but he wasn't sure about Sherlock. Even knowing the detective had saved his life… he'd put John through hell for three years.

"Why didn't you just tell me?" John finally asked when the story was done, setting his empty beer down on the bar and staring at the bottle instead of looking at Sherlock. The detective sighed again.

"I couldn't risk your life. Better you in pain than you dead. I wasn't even certain I could ever return, there was every chance that I would actually die while attempting to destroy Moriarty's cohorts. I refused to put you through the pain of my death twice over," Sherlock explained, sounding like he'd thought about the answer often. And most likely he had; any question John could come up with Sherlock would have already considered and thought up an answer to. But this much was true; John could see the honesty written across Sherlock's face with broad strokes. For all his ability to hide his emotions, John still always knew when Sherlock was being honest.

His answer did take the wind out of John's sails a bit. It made sense, and John allowed himself for a moment to think what it would have been like, if he'd found out earlier, only to have Sherlock die for real later on. Just the thought of it physically hurt him; his leg twinged and his shoulder ached at the idea.

"Still, Sherlock you can't just show up and expect things to go back to how they were. Things have changed," John insisted. He realized he was unconsciously leaning closer to the detective and jerked back to settle into his chair. Sherlock's eyes flashed sharply at him.

"Things have changed, but we have not," Sherlock iterated. It was John's turn to sigh now, putting his elbows on the bar and placing his face in his hands. "I'm not asking you to come home." Sherlock hesitated before continuing. "But… I would like to resume our friendship."

John raised his head warily. "And how are we supposed to do that?" he asked, "When we both- well, you know." He didn't want to say it yet, not so early on.

Sherlock shrugged, the gesture foreign on someone who was usually in such control of his body. "I'm… not certain. But I believe it's worth an attempt."

John found himself agreeing.


	2. All My Broken Heartbeats

Sherlock watched as John stood and exited the pub, citing an early day at the surgery as his reason for leaving. They both knew it was an excuse, but Sherlock allowed the pretense because it allowed him to return home and _think_. There had to be a way to salvage their friendship. Sherlock knew John had every right to be angry with him, but he wanted his friend back, in a desperate way that concerned his higher thinking.

But now wasn't the time to consider his deeper emotional attachments to John. Now was the time to figure out how to undo the damage he'd done in the time he'd been away. John hadn't been using his cane, but he did maintain a slight limp, not enough to impair him daily, but enough to make Sherlock furious with himself.

He sat in 221B, silently observing, not for the first time, how empty the flat seemed without John's influence. No tea in the cupboards or milk in the fridge, no mugs waiting to be washed in the sink, and no jumpers piled by the door to be taken to the laundry. And more than that, the flat felt cold without John in it, as if it were mirroring the minds of its inhabitants and now that John's effervescent warmth had abandoned it the flat was stuck reflecting Sherlock's machine of a mind.

In the silence he tried out the words, how he would say them when John trusted him again. _I love you. Come home._ That's what he wanted, was for things to return to the way they were. As John had said so eloquently, he wanted to go back to that possibility.

Sherlock could still recall with perfect clarity the evening before the Fall. He'd known it was coming the next morning, and as they'd crashed back into the flat that night Sherlock couldn't keep himself from pushing John against the wall and kissing him desperately. He didn't want to die without having kissed John at least once.

Part of him had waited for John to shove him away, to be furious, and that part was shocked when John immediately returned his advances. It had been incredible, much better than any of his boring experiments during uni with the other students, so much better than he'd expected it to be. And far too brief.

A moment later John had pulled back slightly; had lifted his hand to trail gently over Sherlock's cheek. "You need to sleep," he'd whispered. Sherlock had still been reeling from the kiss and so had been easy to convince. He'd managed to actually sleep that night, confident that even if he did die the next day he'd be doing it for something –someone- worthwhile.

John was right about one more thing. Things had changed, and it was going to take quite a lot of effort to get his blogger acclimated to the new environment. But perhaps someday… well, he'd leave those daydreams for another time, when he was less focused on keeping John as a friend. Rome wasn't built in a day, after all, though it may have fallen in one.


End file.
